


Rock, Paper, Scissor Me Already!

by fifthessence (ravenwing136)



Category: Black Lagoon
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Awkward Boners, Camping, Chess, Condoms, Crack Relationships, Crack Treated Seriously, Eventual Smut, F/M, Romantic Comedy, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Suggestive Themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-24
Updated: 2017-09-03
Packaged: 2018-12-19 10:12:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11895534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravenwing136/pseuds/fifthessence
Summary: Will she get the boy? Will he get the point? Balalaika wants Rock to strum her like a guitar but he’s the opposite of a player.What will it take for him to work it out?! According to Balalaika, several condoms.





	1. Sunset Drive

**Author's Note:**

> To everyone who's ever wondered how Balalaika/Rock could possibly work: hilariously and with ALL the misunderstandings!

It was late afternoon in Tironkorn, the suburb his cheap hotel was in. The ceiling fan had been broken for eight months now, and vigorously waving a paper one was starting to numb his left arm. Rock had just shifted to a cooler spot on the sofa when his mobile rang.

Caller ID was unknown. Weird, it was usually Dutch ringing this number. Rock flipped the phone open. “Hello?”

“Hello, _japonski,”_ came an all-too-familiar voice, amusement colouring the nickname. Having Balalaika on the line sent Rock into nervous overdrive, wondering what he did so wrong that earned the ear of his boss’s boss. Back at Asahi Industries, mistakes could be forgotten with a bottle of _sake_ , but out here, they’d glass you first, then use the alcohol to set you on fire.

“Hi, Miss Balalaika,” Rock said, trying to stay calm. “What do you need?”

“Just a moment of your time, Rock,” she said. There was a low creak, like an office chair curling back. “I hear you’ve been with Lagoon for a whole year now, is that right?”

Rock glanced at the peeling calendar. “Yeah, it’s tomorrow. I guess this anniversary’s been a year coming now.” He winced at his own lame joke. Damn, he was nervous. To his surprise, Balalaika just laughed.

“Well, you should celebrate!” she said. “Have you ever driven outside the city?”

“Uh, no… never.”

“Well, are you free tonight? I’ll show you around.” Balalaika’s voice dipped a little, full of promise.

Rock figured he wasn’t in trouble, but he also didn’t want to risk saying no. It couldn’t hurt to go for a nice jaunt out of town either.

“Sure, I’m not doing anything,” Rock said. “Do you suppose your car’s got aircon at least?” he asked, eyeing his broken fan.

He felt her grin over the phone. “Even better,” she said.

They arranged to meet in an hour outside his hotel. Rock threw himself into the shower’s lukewarm water, hoping to wash away the miserable heat, but he just ended up sticking to the inside of his new shirt. Rummaging through the drawers, Rock wondered whether getting a lift from a mafia boss required a tie or not, then put one on anyway. He was just clearing away old cups when a car horn blasted loudly from the street below.

Rock hurried downstairs to the main street, where Balalaika was waving from a shiny black convertible.

His mouth fell open. “Is that actually a BMW?” Rock exclaimed. The way the sun glinted off the spotless chassis, it exuded pure, designed luxury.

“Absolutely!” Balalaika said proudly, getting out. “I had to wait three days at the dock, but the handling is worth it.” She pointed out everything from the paint finish to the tire treads, and Rock was almost disappointed when she finally told him to get in.

“Miss Balalaika, you don’t even need to show me around anymore, your car’s amazing enough,” Rock said, grinning as he climbed into the passenger seat.

Balalaika snorted. “You haven’t seen anything yet,” she said wickedly, and floored it.

The car leapt forward in a single, gut-wrenching jolt. Roanapurr’s familiar buildings bled into a continuous blur as the car sped through the city, making it to the highway in record time. With the roof down, the wind whipped past hard enough to sting, but it was cooler on the fast roads as Balalaika drove out of the city, heading for the distant hills.

Rock let the air run through his hair, stripping away the city’s mugginess. In front of them were huge plantations of banana trees, standing like tattered umbrellas in the sun. He looked over at Balalaika. Her thick blonde hair streamed out behind her, while her eyes followed the road intently. Soon, Rock couldn’t see Roanapurr at all; it felt like he’d just travelled to another world completely, speeding without a care, the sun on his neck and the wind in his face.

They reached the mountain roads and had to slow down, climbing the slope gradually. Rock let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. Balalaika offered him a pack of cigarettes; he took one, then one for her too.

“Thanks,” she said, craning her neck towards the lighter. They smoked in silence as they drove on, until Balalaika pointed out a large, lone house just off the road.

“That’s Salowaluk Place. From out here, it looks nice, but the architect who designed it must have been crazy,” Balalaika said. “No corridors.”

Closer to the house, Rock could make out the vaulting curves and embellishments of a traditional French mansion, topped off with little cupids. Which had bullet holes in them. Lots and lots of holes.

“Was there a gunfight here, Miss Balalaika?” He could follow the individual sprays of bullets where they gouged out the main door and support columns.

“Yep. Big one. When we first got here, plenty of small gangs came after us, hoping for fresh blood. We fought them in and out of the city.” She took a long drag. Rock bit his lip. It was weird remembering that Balalaika had only been in Roanapurr a few years, he thought. She seemed a constant in the chaos that brewed in the city, merciless and iconic like a statue.

They turned with the road and Rock could make out a giant hole in the rear of Salowaluk Place, an entrance blasted open with surgical precision. Hotel Moscow never did anything unprofessionally, it seemed.

“What was it like when you first arrived, Miss Balalaika?” Rock asked, curious.

Balalaika thought about it for a while, one hand tapping on the wheel. “Messy,” she said finally. She flicked the cigarette butt out of the car. “It was mainly the triads running business, with dozens of little gangs all fighting with each other, like dogs over scraps.

“When we came in, we took down most of the small gangs, then combined enough territory to go after the triads,” she added. “We got the docks and weapons racket out of that, plus a bit of the heroin.”

“Mr. Chang probably didn’t like that,” Rock remarked.

Balalaika looked distant. “No, he didn’t,” she agreed.

They finally made it to the top of the hill. Balalaika parked the car in the shade of some trees and got out, leaning on the bonnet. Rock followed suit, feeling the engine cool under him. Standing over the quiet countryside, Rock noticed Balalaika was wearing a flowing red sundress, its spaghetti straps revealing long, twisting scars that ran across her upper arms, travelling up from her chest and neck to stop just before her hairline.

“You know, I’ve been meaning to ask you a small favour,” Balalaika said.

Rock paused, new cigarette halfway lit. “What favour, Miss Balalaika?”

“I’m hoping you can patch the holes in the report Dutch turned in,” Balalaika said lightly. “He didn’t say whether the spare G3 rifles got bought or not. Do you know what happened to them?”

Rock remembered Revy delightedly playing with one on the voyage home. “Yeah, Revy borrowed them. Should I tell her to give them back?” he said.

“No, I just wanted to know where they were,” Balalaika said. She shifted closer to him, pulling out a cigarette. He obliged and lit them both, the coiling smoke replacing conversation for a while.

“If we wait a few more minutes, the sun will start to set behind us,” Balalaika said. Rock turned around and shielded his eyes from the glare. The sun was indeed sinking behind rows of banana trees, bathing everything in an orange-gold glow. He felt a warm hand on his back.

“Look at the city,” Balalaika breathed.

Rock obligingly turned back, and saw that Roanapurr had taken on that golden light, painting itself in temporary glory. At this distance, there was no trash on the road, or street rats dying in gutters, just a twinkling cityscape. It was like the sunset transformed the city like Cinderella, urchin by day, princess of cities by night.

This cesspool, Rock’s new home, looked beautiful. Even though Revy proclaimed that Roanapurr would only look good when it got vaporised by an atomic strike, Rock wanted to tell her a different story.

Turned out Roanapurr only looked good when you were smoking with a Russian woman on her convertible at sunset. And it wasn’t a bad look.

They watched the city fade from gold to pink and purple, then artificially twinkle out into a landscape of night lights.


	2. Tell Me Everything

“…we made the delivery just after 2300, and took the full payment from the ship owner at 2330,” Dutch said, rattling off military time with no trouble. The ship logs were spread across Balalaika’s desk, Balalaika herself running a long, acrylic nail down the manifesto as Dutch recounted the details of their recent job. The smell of the morning coffee-and-cigarette combo filled the office, drifting between their chairs tantalisingly.

_Almost feels like a regular day at work,_ Rock thought, if he could ignore the stock of a submachine gun breaking the lines of Boris’ jacket.

Well, Revy was no better, flaunting her twin pistols the way people did engagement rings. The afternoon sun glinted solid white off the polished metal, blinding Rock whenever he glanced her way. Not that there was anything to look at. Revy was out cold in her chair, snoring softly, arms crossed under her guns. Clocking in to Hotel Moscow’s office right after a night delivery had finally downed her.

Beside him, Benny had muted whatever mobile phone game he was playing, much to Rock’s disappointment. The electronic whirls and bleeps would have helped keep him awake, as Dutch’s droning bass continued ticking off contraband.

“Two crates of whiskey… seven cartons of cigarettes… twelve Mark 2 Browning machine guns…”

Balalaika’s face was drawn in concentration, making sure the tiny rows of codes and numbers matched. Her lipstick-stained cigarette lay forgotten in the ashtray as Dutch proceeded to the lists of ammunition. Rock’s eyes drooped again.

“Dutch, you’ve done a fine job,” Balalaika said, her voice ringing them awake more effectively than a bell. “There’s no need for the last three pages, I think your crew’s had enough.” Rock jolted upright, guiltier than a schoolboy. If there was any hope that Balalaika had been making a general comment, it vanished when she fixed Rock with a wink and smile.

“I’ll send your cut to the usual account,” Balalaika said, waving two of her men out the office. Between them was the briefcase Lagoon Company had just delivered, holding sixty-thousand US dollars cash. Even thirteen hundred miles away, there was never a question of whose money it was. The thought of a certain Russian woman would keep any sane person from getting sticky fingers.

“Going rate’s still ten percent, Balalaika,” Dutch said, getting up.

“Of course,” she said, picking up her cigarette. “Get some rest.”

Dismissed, the rest of Lagoon Company started to file out after their boss. Rock trailed behind his colleagues, rubbing his eyes, when Balalaika suddenly looked up from her paperwork.

“A word with you, Rock?” she said.

Rock turned around, surprised. “Um, yeah. Sure.” He returned Revy’s questioning look with an “I’ll catch up” wave, and returned to Balalaika’s desk. Balalaika motioned for him to sit, shuffling the papers aside as he gingerly took the closest chair. The table was still covered in documents, but there was always room for the coffee cup.

The door shut with a thud, and Rock realised Boris had left the room too. _Strange_. He couldn’t think of the last time the burly, scarred bodyguard had left his _kapitan_ alone. Still, everyone knows Rock was about as dangerous as blunt scissors, so of course Boris wouldn’t bother hanging around.

“Coffee?” Balalaika said, pulling out a new mug. Rock nodded, and before long was holding a steaming, black brew in his hands. Balalaika folded her hands, watching him take a few sips.

“Now,” she said, eyes glinting. “Tell me how it _really_ went.”

Rock thought himself as loyal as the next man, but if a pretty lady plied him with drink and smiles, he felt obliged to tell her the truth. “Well, we didn’t _quite_ chase the smuggler down on our first try…”

Balalaika had covered the margins of the manifesto with plenty of corrections and revised figures by the time Rock finished his report. To be fair, the only number Dutch didn’t inflate was the body count. Rock swirled what was left of his coffee slowly. It felt strange to give this information in person, since until recently, Balalaika was just this disembodied voice on the phone, sweetly teasing out ‘forgotten’ mission details with compliments and the occasional cheque.

“My, my, you guys definitely get the job done, but what’s with this blood trail?” Balalaika asked dryly. “Dutch should rename his ship the ‘Red Lagoon’ if this keeps up.”

“Actually, I think it’s just Revy,” Rock said, grinning. “She has to make up for me and Benny not hitting our quotas.”

Balalaika laughed. “That’s very true,” she agreed. She laid her palms on the desk and regarded Rock thoughtfully.

“I trust you’ve been discrete about this little arrangement,” she said.

Rock shrugged. “As much as I can,” he said carefully. There was no guessing how much Dutch actually knew, or cared. He let Rock on his precious ship though, which was usually the almighty indication of how much Dutch trusted someone.

“Good,” Balalaika said, pulling out a little slip of paper. Normally, the thought of extra pay was exciting, but the wall clock behind her told a different story.

“It’s been an hour already?” Rock exclaimed, jumping to his feet. “Shit! They’ll wonder why I’m still here—”

“Calm down,” Balalaika said, amused. She pulled out a thick manila folder from her ‘Out’ tray, handing it to him. “They won’t question you if I send you back with a new contract,” she continued, motioning him to open the file.

Rock obeyed, scanning the documents. It described fairly routine surveillance work, off the coast of Malaysia, but bulking the folder up was a thick sheaf of grainy faxes in the local language.

“Miss Balalaika, you know my Malay isn’t that good,” Rock said, frowning.

“Then this is your chance to get better,” she said, her smile never changing. “We found these after fighting off a drug raid, and I’d like some warning of the next one.

“The Black Lagoon will monitor any coastal activity from the Malaysian navy, especially where they intersect our shipping routes,” Balalaika continued. “Meanwhile, translate these documents into English for me, and I’ll compensate you for your time.”

Rock sifted through the first few pages. He could make out a coast guard report, a weather forecast and a refuelling checklist. He sighed, closing the file.

“The fee?” Rock asked. Dutch would want to know what he signed up for.

“A flat twenty-grand,” Balalaika said matter-of-factly. “Don’t get sunk; I don’t pay ghost ships.”

Right, Malaysian _navy_ , probably the kind with firepower greater than an AK-74. Rock tucked the folder under his arm and made a mental note to check the lifeboats. Revy would call him pessimistic; Rock liked to think he was prepared.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Balalaika said as he stood up to leave. Rock blinked, following the gesture of her hand. Folded in her long nails was his cheque for a job well done.

He struggled to free an arm from the heavy folder, but Balalaika stepped around the table.

“Allow me,” Balalaika said, stroking his arm. Half a head taller than him, Rock had to tilt his head up to look into those light eyes, twinkling with something resembling mischief.

“It’s okay, I can—” Rock broke off as Balalaika pressed the cheque to her red lips, her eyes never leaving his. The paper make a _shiik_ as she pulled it away, her lip print like a red stamp on its reverse. Balalaika tucked it into his breast pocket, her half-smile now a shade paler.

Balalaika was close enough for Rock to catch her perfume, a subtle coconut scent that smelled both exotic and local. Her loose hair trailed down her face, and as Rock tried to dart out of that steady gaze, he found his eyes following the blonde waves past her neck and collarbone, where her scars cut jagged lines over her shoulders and between her breasts—

Rock flushed as Balalaika laughed suddenly. She patted his cheek, which felt close to boiling.

“I’ll call you soon,” Balalaika promised, showing him out. His ears were filled with pounding embarrassment; Rock didn’t hear the door close behind him as he took the stairs two at a time back into the sun.

“Balalaika sure has a twisted sense of humour,” Benny said much later, as he looked over the coordinates they were supposed to cover.

Rock agreed, albeit for different reasons. Lying in bed that night, he turned the cheque over and over in his hands, trying to think.

On one side, Balalaika’s red lipstick, smoky and inviting. On the other, a concrete, cross-signed five hundred dollars. He could even get it as cash if he was polite to the teller.

Rock folded the cheque up and tucked it back into his shirt. _No one’s practical joke was worth half a grand,_ he thought, curling into sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise these ficlets will go somewhere for the two of them xD


	3. Chess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Balalaika invites Rock for dinner and a game of chess.

Rock finished his late afternoon shower to find his phone glowing with a new voicemail. Towelling his hair dry, he pressed play.Balalaika’s voice filled the room.

“ _It’s me_ ,” she said, and Rock imagined her leaning back, a Cuban cigar in hand. _“I got your message. Well done on the translations, we’ve been putting them to good use.”_

He could already see her triangulating the data, ferreting out informers and loose ends that threatened the flow of heroin through southeast Asia. Hotel Moscow was never slow; Rock had heard of three new explosions in town since he handed in the documents a week ago.

There was a short pause on the recording, then Balalaika cleared her throat and continued, _“However, there are some things I’d like to ask you about, in person. I’ll be at the Marigold Hotel this evening, call me back when you hear this.”_ Her voice clicked off suddenly.

Marigold Hotel? Well, it would be a nice change from the stuffy, nerve-wracking office of hers. He’d quit trying to guess which bookcases were doors and which books hid a stealthy pistol. Plus, Revy had told him that Balalaika didn’t mind doing executions there, which made him _really suspicious_ about the ‘coffee stains’.

Rock got dressed before calling back, realising too late he’d rung the office. Balalaika’s sergeant picked up.

“She’s already gone back to the hotel,” Boris said, his tone long-suffering. “I’ll send a car for you and tell her you’re coming.” Rock could hear a continuous shuffle of paperwork over the line. Apparently, some days ‘second-in-command’ stood for ‘secretary’. He thanked Boris for the lift and settled down to wait.

It was just shy of six o’clock when a silver sedan pulled up on the curb. Rock let himself into the backseat, careful not to crease his only jacket. He was grateful to err on the side of overdressed, since the car breezed through evening traffic to let him out in front of a building with an elaborate British facade, panelled in creamy-veined marble.

Balalaika was nowhere near reception. Instead, a thin man named Lagransky took him past the bellhops and businessmen straight to the restaurant, a lush, carpeted space holding elegantly wrought tables and their equally delicate clientele. Clearly, Roanapurr had a _right_ side of town after all. 

Rock sat down, bemused at all the luxury until Balalaika tapped the table in front of him.

“Would you like a drink to start?” she asked, smiling slightly.

Rock blinked. Balalaika had changed out of her sharp suit into a black velvet outfit, tied off behind her neck. It was impossible to block out the fact that her cocktail dress was _very_ supportive of her chest. Rock buried his face in the wine list, before realising what she said.

“Um… am I eating? With you?” he asked.

Balalaika raised her empty glass, summoning a prim waiter to her side. “Of course, Rock,” she said mildly. “Why else would I ask you here?” Her glass was immediately filled with a deep maroon liquid, almost black in the low light.

The waiter did the same for him as Rock was too stunned to fend him off. “I thought it was just convenient for you, I didn’t realise I’d interrupt your dinner—”

“Don’t be so polite,” she said. “I wanted to treat you for a job well done.” Balalaika leaned over the table, eyes bright. It had the unfortunate effect of pushing everything above her neckline, which wasn’t high enough to begin with.

“Will you let me?” she said.

“I just—”

Balalaika silenced him with a finger on his lips. “No excuses,” she told him. “Just enjoy the meal.”

 _I don’t think I can,_ Rock thought wildly. Her long nail brushed the tip of his nose as she continued smiling. Nothing had prepared him for dinner with an attractive mafia boss! If Balalaika kept leaning over like that, there was a chance he was going to drown in diving depth cleavage.

Rock fixed his eyes on her face, trying to calm the fire in his cheeks. Balalaika finally sat back, but not before he caught a flicker of disappointment in her eyes.

“Relax, this isn’t a test,” she said. “You’re far too suspicious for your own good.”

Rock exhaled slowly, feeling like she’d just removed a gun from his forehead.

“I didn’t expect this at all,” Rock said, half-apologising. “I mean, it’s too much for some translation work. Which you already paid me for.” The waiter had removed the sprig of flowers, leaving a tea light in its place.

“Consider it a bonus,” Balalaika said dryly, “if not for the good company.”

He didn’t know what to make of that, but luckily the appetiser arrived: a shellfish platter, garnished sparingly. Balalaika handled the various creatures daintily, offering a freshly shucked oyster to him. Rock mumbled his thanks and tried not to slop it everywhere.

“Do you have these in Japan?” she asked, wiping her hands. “I hear you eat a lot of seafood.”

“Yeah, but we prepare them differently,” Rock said. He peered at the oyster, wondering if the meat was floating in oil or freshwater. Rock swallowed it quickly, trying not to chew. “What about you?”

Balalaika sipped her wine. “Completely different species,” she said thoughtfully. “Russia always lacked warm water.”

“What about the east?” He vaguely remembered Asahi Industries buying coal and iron in the region, and oil from Vladivostok.

“Never went there,” Balalaika admitted.

Rock didn’t know much about Russia, except for where it bordered Japan over a slip of the Pacific. Luckily, Balalaika wasn’t interested in talking geography. Their wines dipped lower as they made idle talk, but Rock kept getting distracted by the way Balalaika’s eyes turned gold over the candle.

Somewhere between the appetiser and the main course, the conversation swung to their hobbies.

“Er, I don’t mind drinking,” Rock said. Still, it felt insulting to the restaurant to even mention any of the home-brand beers at the cafeteria. “What about you?”

“I don’t think I’ve had any free time since I arrived here,” she said. Balalaika’s knife dipped in and out of her steak, revealing perfect shades of medium rare. “But I did like to play chess in school. Do you play?”

Rock swallowed quickly before answering. “A little, yeah. It’s been ages though; I don’t think I remember any strategies.” He saw a smile flicker over Balalaika’s lips.

“Neither do I,” she said. “Perhaps we could refresh our memories after this? A short game in my room?”

“Sure,” Rock said. They were taking their dinner in the hotel restaurant, it wasn’t hard to open a chessboard upstairs for a round. The waiter cleared their glasses as Balalaika waved away his non-existent chess skills.

“You _japonskis_ are too humble,” Balalaika laughed. “We’ll know when we play!”

*

Two hours later, she had to admit that he was right. Laid out on the coffee table between a handful of scented candles, the chessboard was telling a very one-sided story.

A glass of Merlot in her free hand, Balalaika’s nails made a light clack on the board as she picked up the black bishop, demolishing his last rook. “You are absolutely terrible at this,” she announced.

“I did tell you though,” Rock said, sneakily putting black in check. “Didn’t you realise when you had to explain castling in the first round?”

Balalaika rolled her eyes and sent a pawn to block it.

“Well, you didn’t fall for the five-move checkmate, so I thought there was still hope,” Balalaika said, sounding petulant. Her hand crossed the board. “Check.”

“Um…” Even without a timer, Balalaika’s eyes bored the seconds into his skull as he tried to wiggle his king out of the crossfire. He warily moved a square left.

“And mate!” she crowed, sending her bishop leaping across the map, ending the game again.

Rock flopped back in the sofa, sighing in relief. “Thank you!”

“No, thank _you_ ,” Balalaika said, surveying the board. “You actually put up a good fight that last round. If it weren’t for you wasting your move here—” she pointed where Rock had dumped his castle in front of her queen, “you would have held out a lot longer.”

“Yeah, but I wouldn’t have won anyway,” Rock said. Balalaika’s king was perfectly shielded behind a row of pawns.

“Survival first. Winning comes later,” Balalaika said, offering him a cigarette. Rock wondered if it was polite to smoke indoors when she shook the packet. He took one and lit up, nodding thanks.

On the board, the pieces were all frozen in his moment of defeat, a re-enactment of most people going up against Balalaika in real life. Rock was just thinking about the fortune-telling possibilities of chess when Balalaika plucked the cigarette out of his fingers and took a long drag.

“Would you like to play again?” she said, winking at him. Rock snorted and took back his cigarette, noticing how her lipstick had coloured the filter pink.

“No thanks. It’s just an excuse for you to kick my ass.”

Balalaika chuckled, pulling out the lighter. She lit the candles on the table, releasing an aroma like a bouquet of fresh flowers.

Rock watched the open flames warily. “Uh, aren’t those a fire hazard?” he asked. _Surely they should be in lamps or something?_

The sofa bounced as she settled down beside him. “Don’t you ever relax?” Balalaika said, crossing her legs. Her knee was suddenly flush against his thigh, where the stocking stretched thinnest over her skin, warm and firm. Balalaika wore a faint smile that didn’t slip as easily as her neckline as she leaned towards him.

Rock grinned, willing himself to move slowly; any sudden moves would be ‘flinching’, and if Balalaika thought she was going to win this game of chicken so easily, she’d be mistaken.

He casually laid his arm on the back of the sofa and cocked his head. Balalaika’s eyes widened, and she mimicked him, her free hand draping over his wrist, the tips of her fingers under edge of his cuff. The sensation of her warm fingertips was a curious one, as they trailed behind her long nails, sending mini-goosebumps across the back of his hand.

Balalaika played this game well. It was time to up the stakes. Rock put his hand on her stockinged knee, stroking the nylon with his thumb. Balalaika’s eyes lit up, and she moved closer so that his hand was now on her thigh. Her lashes dipped low, half-closed over a burning gaze as she ran her hand up his arm…

A sudden glance at the clock cut through the heady aroma and made Rock realise he had overstayed. “I’m sorry, it’s getting late,” he said. “I should get going.”

Balalaika sipped her wine very casually. “You’re welcome to stay, if you like.” Her eyes were very blue over the rim of her glass.

“It’s okay. I’ve never really liked sofa beds,” Rock said, folding his jacket over his arm. He hunted for his shoes near the door, barely catching Balalaika’s sigh.

She re-joined him just as he was about to leave. “I’ve called Petrov to take you back. Get home safely,” Balalaika said, patting his shoulder. Rock couldn’t believe his luck.

“Thank you, Miss Balalaika!” he said. She smiled, but there was a new tiredness in her eyes. Rock bowed as she closed the door, kicking himself for being an inconsiderate guest.

Rock never said no to her other dinner invitations, but he declined extending it to her room. No need to overstay someone’s hospitality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is longer than the first three together ;D Hope you're looking forward to Balalaika and Rock FINALLY getting together!


	4. A Long, Hard Mission

The way Hotel Moscow flanked their _kapitan,_ Balalaika’s side was one of the safest places in Roanapurr. Rock agreed immediately when she asked him on a weekend training mission outside the city. Alarm bells should have gone off when the convoy dropped them off alone, the barrel of Balalaika’s rifle banging the car door on the way out.

Rock stared at the cars’ vanishing taillights. “Miss Balalaika, where are they going?”

“Where they’re wanted,” she replied, handing him a backpack.

Rock frowned at her cryptic answer, following her into the greenery. He would have welcomed extra firepower.

They marched through the forest at a steady pace. Balalaika led him down a little path that shrunk the deeper they went, cutting uncomfortably down steep slopes and snarling roots. Rock didn’t want to out himself as the most urban breed of human, but he definitely wished there was gravel, if not an actual boardwalk through the leaves.

Balalaika turned to him after they reached a flat clearing. “How are you feeling, Rock?” she asked.

“It’s not bad,” Rock said honestly, giving his pack a shake. Something clanged loudly, making him jump.

Balalaika grinned at his reaction. “Well, we’re not in a rush. Let’s take a water break, and move in five minutes.” She pulled the gun over her head and set it on the floor, her own pack landing next to it.

Rock followed suit, rummaging around his bag for the bottle. Or canteen, whatever. He hoped he wouldn’t pull out a tent pole. No need to look incompetent in the first hour. A cardboard box poked his palm, and Rock figured it was the muesli bars. He grabbed it and pulled it out.

“Hey, I think we have som—” Rock’s voice died when he saw the picture of a jolly, phallic cartoon on the box. He dropped it and swore loudly.

The woman who packed their bags had the _nerve_ to look surprised. “What’s wrong?” Balalaika said, looking up in alarm.

“What are these?!” Rock demanded.

Balalaika had to lean over, and Rock wasn’t ready to see her _flinch._ When she slowly looked up, Balalaika looked like she had difficulty breathing.

“I think they’re condoms,” she said at last, staring fixedly at him.

Not looking at the box wasn’t gonna make it evaporate. Rock felt his face burning.

“No shit!” he yelled. “What’s it doing in your bags?!”

She didn’t respond immediately, and Rock flashed through every negative outcome involving using the condoms, then the gun. For all her psychopathic tendencies, Rock never expected Balalaika to be _that_ kind of criminal!

Balalaika cleared her throat.

“They’re survival tools,” Balalaika said, and Rock groaned. Her eyes half-closed in that slow blink she did right before doing something outrageous.

“It’s true,” she drawled. “They’re essential for any soldier, and if you’re going to perform well on this mission, you’ll learn how to use them soon enough.”

Saying “I already know how to use a condom” to his female employer sounded way too vulgar, but Rock’s brain stuttered to a stop before he could call her. “I- You- We both know what these are, so why—”

“Would you like a demonstration?” Balalaika said lightly. She opened the box with a swift finger, pulling out a little silver packet by the time he found the words again.

“I’m not — _I’m not having sex with you!”_ Rock exclaimed. He back-pedalled into a tree, unable to take his eyes off her hands.

Balalaika snorted. “As if that’s the only use for a condom.” She tapped the condom to her chin, looking thoughtful.

_I’m going to be alone with this woman two whole days,_ Rock thought. _Fuck my life._

She finally pocketed the horrendous little packet and picked up her pack. “Looks like I’ll have to show you later!” Balalaika said cheerfully, walking off.

He stared at her back, resisting the urge to mouth Revy’s favourite words. Logically, Balalaika had put the condom away because there was no fucking use for it in the _jungle_ , but a small voice told him not to be optimistic. Rock took several deep breaths before grabbing his own pack, following Balalaika into the most awkward weekend ever.

*

A rabbit had to be the author of such a narrow, twisting road. Even though Rock’s feet caught in more branches than a bad _sabah_ dancer, the fear of crashing into Balalaika helped him regain his balance every time.

Balalaika was walking a few paces ahead, her long strides seemingly unchanged by the terrain. Rock studied her from the back. Plucked out of her cushy office, Balalaika was almost unrecognisable, her trademark frizzy hair now pulled into a dutch braid, dangling as a thick rope down the side of her pack. Dressed in olive green camouflage, she nearly blended into their surroundings seamlessly, if not for the stiff gun barrel cutting across her back.

She squared her shoulders much more when she wasn’t in a skirt and blazer. Rock started; there was something about her outfit’s straight cut that looked familiar. “Miss Balalaika, is that… uniform?” Rock asked.

Balalaika turned around, beaming like she’d received a fabulous compliment. “Why, this old thing?” she said, smoothing her shirt. “It absolutely is; do you like it?” Balalaika winked.

“Where’s all the…um, pictures?” He struggled to find the word, gesturing towards her shoulder.

“The insignia?” Balalaika filled in the term. “Not on these fatigues, I’m afraid. They’re still on the coat though.”

A faded blue patch with symmetrical aircraft branded each sleeve of her greatcoat, Rock remembered. They continued to walk.

“Special forces?” he asked, recalling Benny’s words.

“I’m flattered, but no,” Balalaika said, her voice sad. “ _Spetsnaz_ has far better job security.

“We were _desantniki_ , paratroopers,” she continued. “We were good, but no one needed us after the war.”

_It made sense,_ Rock thought. The Soviet-Afghan war was dogged by the fall of the Soviet Union, and work ran in short supply.

“They laid off your unit?” Rock wondered.

She snorted loudly. “Try ‘disbanded, scapegoated and exiled’,” Balalaika told him. “It was easier to punish soldiers than admit that the ten-year war was fucked.”

He’d never heard her swear before. “I guess you’ve all done well here though,” Rock said, thinking of Hotel Moscow, loyal to the bone.

“Mm, not bad for traitors and gang members,” she agreed, before lapsing into a silence no one wanted to break.

The ground had become more even, squelching loudly under his shoes. Rock ignored the sound until a bubbling noise rose over it.

“Miss Balalaika, are we following a river?” Rock asked. He could definitely hear water, even the occasional splash.

“Yes, we’re going to cross it,” she replied. “Hope you’re not afraid to get your feet wet.”

“I’m not—” Rock started to say, before the forest spat them out on a muddy bank. Trees and vines folded messily away at the waterline. They were on one side of a small river, its water rippling over rocks and dark sand.

Balalaika dropped her pack on the ground, Rock hastily following her lead. She handed him a large plastic cover and showed him how to seal the backpack shut, preventing water from ruining their supplies. They were helping each other get the wrapped bags on when Rock noticed Balalaika’s rifle lying on the ground.

“What about your gun?” he asked. “Should we cover that too?”

Balalaika opened her mouth, but Rock’s stomach flipped when he saw her change her mind mid-breath.

“Oh, normally I just hold it out of the water,” Balalaika said, grinning mischievously. “But since you asked, I’ll show you a survival skill.”

He didn’t look away fast enough as she pulled out a condom. _Oh, bloody hell._

“Watch, Rock, you never know when this might come in useful,” she said slyly, picking up her rifle. Rock rubbed his face and tried not to think about her eyes darkening in amusement.

It really, _really_ didn’t help that his past experience with condoms were for their actual function. Balalaika placed the rifle on the ground stock-first, steadying the barrel with one hand. The other positioned a brand-new condom over the barrel and started working it down like a terribly live demonstration of using birth control.

Balalaika was being bloody gentle with the gun, making it look like… something else. Swivelling the little ring this way and that, she propped the gun against her hip and used both hands to try snap the rubber to the metal barrel.

Rock wanted to drop dead on the spot; the gun had nestled in the folds of her shirt and definitely _did not resemble a_ —

The condom wouldn’t stay put. Balalaika bent over it, her braid falling over her shoulder as she held the tip in place with her teeth. She hovered there for a moment, trying to find a good hold. Rock flinched when Balalaika suddenly looked up at him, the pale latex between her lips. With a devilish grin, Balalaika held his stare as she rolled the condom slowly down the barrel, then carefully rubbed it up and down in her hands, making sure it didn’t stray.

His heart jumped, not knowing whether to send blood to his face or his cock.

“That’s not a survival skill,” Rock said faintly.

Balalaika finally let the tip fall out of her mouth and straightened, snapping the makeshift barrel cover secure one last time. “It keeps sand and water from getting into the mechanism,” she said coolly, as though she hadn’t just mimed a blowjob on her gun. “Ready to cross?”

Rock was more than ready to throw himself into the river. “Yeah,” he managed.

Balalaika waded into the water, pushing through the current like a market crowd. Rock stayed close in the slipstream, wishing looks could kill. Her rifle was slung high up across her broad shoulders, in no danger of getting wet in the waist-high water.

Well, chest-high for him. Rock hoped his ungraceful sloshing didn’t sound too much like drowning in the kiddie pool. The way Balalaika kept checking over her shoulder, it did.

“Are you all right?” she asked, the corner of her scars pulling up in concern.

“Never better,” Rock said, and meant it; the running, gritty water was absolutely murdering any hint of a boner he got from her teasing gun safety. He looked over at the opposite bank, searching for a good tree.

“Will we have enough time to dry these clothes?” he asked.

“No, we have to keep moving,” Balalaika said. “As long as you’re not wearing underwear, they’ll dry just fine as you walk.” It took her a while to notice that Rock was frozen in shock.

Balalaika turned to him and crossed her arms. “You’re wearing underwear?” She said, sounding ready to scold him for _getting dressed like a normal person._

Rock could only stare at her. “And you’re not?!” The water pressure made his voice squeakier than he would have liked. He fixed his eyes solidly on her frowning face.

_Don’t look down to check, don’t look down to check—_

“Of course not, it’s not hygienic,” Balalaika said impatiently.

Rock was at loss for words, but what could you say when your attractive boss just told you they were going commando? He wasn’t even thinking about his underpants, now that he knew about the lack of _hers._ Wait, did that rule apply to bras as well?

_Don’t look!_ his last voice of reason screeched, even as Balalaika reached the other side, swinging her pack and gun onto dry land. As she levered herself out of the water, Rock goggled as the curve of her hips pushed out with a light splash. Her pants clung closely to her legs, stretching over the swell of her backside.

With the vast experience of a man, Rock could confirm she was _not_ wearing any underwear.

Balalaika knelt by the river for a moment, wringing out the heaviest parts of her trousers before offering a hand to him. Rock stared at her outstretched hand for a long moment, before letting her pull him out of the water. He looked longingly towards the path when Balalaika’s voice chimed out.

“Where are you going?” she teased. “We’re not done yet.”

Rock didn’t stifle his groan when she pulled out a condom again. Where the hell was she even hiding those things?

“How many have we wasted already?” Rock said, running a hand over his face. Dammit, his reaction wasn’t getting better. His face felt like he’d been tanning it with a lamp, and his pants…

“It’s hardly a waste if you learn something useful,” Balalaika said primly, stretching out the rubbery sheath and placing it under the water, held in with a sock. Apparently, it was possible to inflate a condom to the size of a medium balloon with a face as straight as a politician’s. Whatever sexiness he used to equate with the sight of a condom was rapidly vanishing as the new water carrier swelled to an uncomfortable, sloshing size.

“Can we go now?” Rock grumbled, as she tied the condom shut.

Balalaika just held up the other sock. “Not until you show me you can do it,” she said sweetly.

Rock tried to stab her with his eyes as he tore open the condom.

“Not on the floor— give it to me,” Balalaika interrupted, as he moved to toss the foil wrapper. Bewildered, Rock put it in her outstretched hand, watching her tuck it into a side pocket. Well, he’d already suspended all definitions of weird when it came to Balalaika. Rock sighed and focussed on getting water into the rubber.

It was a lot harder than it looked. After an age of humiliation, all he had was a saggy condom inside a wet sock, looking like a kid with a coal-filled stocking on Christmas. Actually, Rock preferred the coal. At least Balalaika couldn’t trigger awkward half-boners just by _holding_ one.

Balalaika watched him tie it off and pack it away, nodding in satisfaction. “Something before we go,” she said, offering something to him.

Rock gingerly held out his hand, expecting an encore round of condoms, but he caught three muesli bars instead. _Thank god._

They ate as they walked. The path had widened on this bank, showing signs of human use: a boot print here, a cigarette butt there. Refusing to meet Balalaika’s amused gaze, Rock marched ahead, trying to ignore his sopping pants.

He managed it for about ten minutes before his skin started to crawl. Behind him, Balalaika cheerily recounted all the homemade remedies Hotel Moscow used on each other whenever they encountered goddamn _nappy rash_.

“You know, I think they call it ‘crotch rot’ in English!” she said.

Rock glared over his shoulder, trying not to walk bow-legged. Balalaika smirked.

“Don’t you want to take it off?” Balalaika asked. “I promise not to peek.”

Rock gave up. “You better not,” he grumbled, heading into the bushes. Rock figured a distance of several trees was enough to keep from mooning her and dropped his pants. His undergarments were an unsalvageable green, so he buried it under some leaves before heading back.

“Feeling better?” she inquired.

“Actually, yeah,” Rock said, finally able to stand straight. Surprisingly, Balalaika was right about drying out; by the time they reached their campsite, the wet edge of his pants only came up to mid-knee. Even the heavy fabric of Balalaika’s trousers was merely damp, not dripping.

“Wow, who built that?” Rock asked. The sun had started to drop, but he could easily make out the small, grey bunker, nestled between the forest edge and a steep cliff. Balalaika swung open a steeply angled door to let them into the small dugout.

“We did,” Balalaika admitted, a bit of pride creeping into her voice. “It took three weeks, we had to bring the concrete up ourselves…”

The inside looked like a quarter of an army dorm, holding mainly a metal footlocker, a portable stove, and a cot. There wasn’t even any bedding. It was so square and oblong, the only evidence that it wasn’t built by a robot was a group of saplings near the entrance, future trees taller and greener than their neighbours.

Balalaika placed her rifle away carefully in the footlocker, then shut the door. She rolled out a map to show him where they were. The coordinates showed a gravel road below the cliff edge, and Rock could actually hear the odd rumble as a truck rolled through the twisting mountain road.

“Yes, that’s the highway between Chupat and Roanapurr,” Balalaika said, tracing it with a finger. “It used to be a popular heroin route before we got here. Then the government paved it, and now everyone has to pay toll on their bootlegs.”

Rock checked at the elevation figures out of curiosity, and was immediately glad Balalaika hadn’t taken the most vertical approach. “It’s one hell of a safe house, so long as you’re not attacked by mountain goats,” he joked, rolling up the map.

Balalaika smiled. “You can set up the tent outside, then come in and wash up,” she told him.

Rock had no problem following those basic instructions, until he somehow lost the tent’s main line. He ran his hands through the grass, then the dirt, and was about to dig up all the rocks when Balalaika came out.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, spotting the tent still lying like a deflated balloon. “Is it broken?”

“Er, not really,” Rock said. “I can’t find the main line.”

“Oh, I can fix that,” Balalaika said. She flipped her hair over her shoulder and gave him a sideways look. “Don’t think you’re going to like it though.”

A whole day and he knew _that_ look. Rock sighed and went to fetch the condoms.

True to her word, Balalaika fashioned a stout-looking rope from far too many of the stretchy things. Watching her unfurl each condom was like being at the most bizarre strip show, but he wasn’t ready for audience participation when she thrust the makeshift rope into his hands.

“Hold this end,” she instructed. Rock obeyed, trying not to cringe. Thank god they weren’t the lubricated ones. He was allowed to let go only when Balalaika secured it smartly to the tent.

Balalaika placed all the wrappers back in the box, muttering something about “not littering” and “I’m gonna get them for this”. Rock put it out of his mind; he had enough trouble being on Balalaika’s _good_ side, he didn’t want to contemplate anyone having it worse.

Rock rubbed his too-hot face. “I could have gotten elastic out of the spare pants, you know…”

“And ruin your clothes? Don’t be silly,” Balalaika replied. She pulled her lopsided grin again. “Besides, I’ve got plenty more where that came from.”

She didn’t have to _shake the box in his face_.

They put the stove on outside, setting water to boil. Balalaika ducked into the safe house, emerging minutes later in a change of clothes, shaking dry shampoo out of her hair.

“You can have a wash in there too,” she said, combing her hair out with her fingers. “Just make sure all the water goes back in the bucket.”

Rock had never seen anyone’s hair explode from just been stroked. Freed from a heavy coat of oil, Balalaika’s hair dramatically expanded into a cloud of yellow. She tucked it into her usual ponytail, plopping onto the grass next to him.

As they waited for their rations to cook, Rock decided to ask something that had been on his mind ever since he was invited on this mission.

“Why you?” Balalaika repeated. She pursed her lips thoughtfully. “I felt that you needed to know something about field missions before I started sending you on them.”

Rock suspected it was always rude to call a woman out on her bullshit.

“With all due respect, Miss Balalaika, that’s a terrible reason,” Rock said. “You could easily get Dutch or one of your men to train me without going to all this trouble, so…?”

“Because I like to torture myself,” Balalaika muttered, so low Rock was sure he wasn’t meant to hear that.

“Look,” she said, turning to face him. “Would it sound foolish to say I wanted to get to know you better?” Balalaika tipped her head to the side, as though hoping for a reaction.

Rock blinked in surprise. “But…why?”

Balalaika smiled, the firelight glancing off her cheekbones.

“Because you’re interesting,” she told him, “and when I first met you, I told Boris you’d probably wind up dead or missing within a month.

“Yet here you are, thriving in the city of shit, blooming like a rose.”

It felt weird to be compared to a flower, but Rock couldn’t think of a better metaphor for living in dirt.

“Well, I make the most of where I am, I suppose,” he said. “Like you.”

There was a wry satisfaction in her eyes he couldn’t quite explain. “You’re more at home here than you think,” Balalaika said, putting down her bowl.

“Um, thanks?” Rock said, handing her a dinner of instant noodles. Unfortunately, he also gave her the chopsticks, and there was no way he could stay quiet.

“How do you not break a finger like that?!” Rock said incredulously.

Balalaika somehow made her pinky look like a second opposable thumb. “There are two of them,” Balalaika said, as dignified as she could, “and I only have one hand.” Rock nearly slapped himself in the mouth to keep from laughing.

“That honestly looks painful, Miss Balalaika,” Rock said, when he finally calmed down. “You should be able to use them like this,” he added, clicking his own.

Balalaika had to untangle her claw-like grip. “Like this?”

“Try moving it up and down…” Rock said. He watched her struggle to move the chopsticks for a while before putting his food down.

“Here,” he said, taking her hand. “Pretend you’re holding a pen.” Rock realigned the chopsticks in her hand, noticing absently how warm her hands were. They were as wide as his, slightly calloused, her fingers long and slender even without the extra inch of acrylic nail.

“It’s okay, I’m afraid this might be beyond me,” Balalaika said lightly. Rock wasn’t giving up though.

“No, it’s really easy once you get the hang of it.” Rock crouched down, pulling her hand up. Using chopsticks was one of the things he took for granted, and he was useless at explaining it.

Balalaika placed her other hand over his. “I said it’s okay,” she said, leaning close.

Rock could smell the musk of her hair as she rubbed the back of his hand gently, gazing at him in a strange way. The fire crackled and for a moment her eyes reflected the gold of the sparks, shiny and hot. She was so close, he could see every strand framing her face, glowing as finely as her eyelashes. Her mouth opened slightly, as though about to say something—

“I’m sorry,” Rock interrupted, pulling away. “I know I’m not teaching it very well. No need to make me feel better.”

“‘Feel better?’” Balalaika echoed. She looked at him in a mix of surprise and disappointment. “Oh.”

Rock quickly handed her the rest of her dinner, feeling guilty. The food was definitely colder, but at least she wasn’t on the verge of spraining her thumb anymore. Balalaika didn’t say much for the rest of the meal, looking very…annoyed?

Balalaika waved him away when he offered to do the dishes. “You can go wash yourself first,” she said. “You’ll feel much better in new clothes.” Balalaika flapped her fresh shirt for emphasis, which immediately revealed that she wasn’t wearing a bra.

Rock glued his eyes to her forehead. “Sure!” he said, too loudly. “That’s great!”

Her laughter sent her chest bouncing. A lot. “Goodness, you’re eager!” Balalaika grinned, putting her hands on her hips. The movement took her shoulders back, pushing her chest towards him.

Rock practically ran past her and tried to drown himself in the washbasin. It didn’t work. He settled for scrubbing his face until it felt like he’d filed off a layer of skin and the memory of her freely moving breasts.

Which were still on display when he returned to the tent. Balalaika rolled over, stretched out on the sleeping bag. A camping light hung from the ceiling, illuminating every fold of the thin shirt over her body. Rock covered his eyes when she arched her back and yawned.

“Miss Balalaika, what are you doing here,” he said flatly. He now knew the answer to ‘How low did Balalaika’s scars go’ and it was _not_ a revelation he needed.

“I’m sleeping here,” Balalaika replied, rolling on her stomach and looking innocently at him. “It’s a two-man tent, I don’t see why you’re fussed.” The white shirt was in stark contrast to the line of her cleavage. Balalaika grinned as he slowly lost his words.

“Miss Balalaika, t-that’s inappropriate—” he said, trying and failing to block out thoughts of lying next to her silky hair, and long legs, and enormous—

“You _could_ take the cot,” Balalaika mused, playing with her hair. “But I can tell you that it gets very, very stuffy in that little room.”

She ran a hand over the space next to her, smiling.

“I already set up your sleeping bag, don’t be shy,” she drawled.

Rock gave her a very level look, then flopped onto his side, pulling his sleeping bag firmly around himself and curling against the wall.

“Goodnight, Miss Balalaika,” Rock said, closing his eyes. For the slightest moment, the silhouette of Balalaika’s figure burned behind his eyelids, hour-glassed and soft.

There was a pointed silence, then the light clicked off. A soft repeated thudding could be heard, like someone slamming their head into a pillow, then nothing.

*

A sharp pain bloomed in his shin and Rock jolted upright, biting back a yell. He curled over his leg, trying to scream silently. He’d barely managed to muffle his pain when Balalaika’s foot jerked again, this time hitting him in the knee.

He clutched his leg, biting his lip hard. Balalaika wasn’t even awake! She’d curled on her side, loose hair falling over her face. Rock shuffled his sleeping bag as far away as possible and tried to go back to sleep. He had barely settled down when Balalaika made a strange noise.

It sounded like she had trouble breathing, but as far as he could tell, she didn’t seem to have moved at - no, she’d folded herself like a hunchback, and her breaths came quick and shallow.

“Miss Balalaika?” Rock whispered, shuffling towards her. _Uh oh,_ he thought, as she made another wordless sound, restless. _I think she’s having a nightmare._

Rock had heard enough of Balalaika’s chequered past from his colleagues to guess its lows. Death, war, getting your skin burnt off, more death - it probably made for vicious dreams that clawed through sleep.

_Shit…_ “Balalaika, wake up.” Rock searched the shadows for a hint of consciousness. One of her hands was curled rigidly like a dead spider, fingers twitching.

He reached out to shake her awake, but something held him back. It felt way out of line, too inappropriate —

_She asked to sleep in the same tent, I don’t think it gets more inappropriate than that,_ Rock thought.

It was no different from calling Revy awake after their booze-fests, right? Rock touched Balalaika’s shoulder as gently as he could.

“Hey, wake up,” he whispered.

Balalaika didn’t seem to hear, her body tense under his hand. She made a pained noise when he tried again.

“Miss Balalaika? Balalaika? Can you hear me?”

Shaking Balalaika was like trying to hand-mould marble. Rock shook her with both hands this time, more insistently.

“Miss Bala—!”

Balalaika snapped his words in two as she suddenly rolled awake, slamming him onto his back with a shove. Rock landed on the hard-packed dirt, knocking his breath out. A leg crossed over him, then the rest of her. He caught a glimpse of her eyes, wide and angry, before Balalaika pinned him solidly under her, his wrists forced over his head as another hand locked over his throat.

Rock couldn’t breathe; Balalaika’s weight was firmly on his diaphragm, her knees digging into his ribs as she neutralised the threat. Rock gasped, instinctively trying to buck her off, but half-asleep he was no match for a fully-trained soldier intent on keeping him down.

Her breath fell fast and shallow on his face. “Balalaika,” Rock croaked. _Dammit._

Balalaika blinked at the sound of his voice, recognition finally blooming in her eyes, and she let go of him faster than a burning coal.

Rock grabbed her hand. “Are you…” _Okay,_ he tried to say, but from her choked, harsh breathing, she definitely wasn’t. He reached out and took the scrunch of her lapel tangled up in her hair, pulling her down.

Balalaika buried her face in his neck, breathing wetly. Rock stroked her hair until she was no longer shivering.

“Hey,” he said quietly, as her breathing evened out. “I’m going to turn on the light, okay?”

Balalaika shifted against him slightly, and nodded. Her grip on his shirt didn’t loosen.

She flinched when the light came on. The stark light gave her skin a waxed quality which the scars tore through. Rock sat her up slowly, wrapping her in his sleeping bag. Balalaika’s eyes were a watery grey and didn’t seem to register as he tucked her loose hair into the makeshift blanket.

Pale and still, she looked too much like a dead woman. He jumped when she spoke suddenly.

“I… want to go outside,” Balalaika said quietly, looking straight through him.

The air was cool, and their lamp turned the tent into a gentle nightlight that lit the area several metres in every direction. At her soft directions, Rock walked Balalaika to the cliff, setting her down with her feet over the edge.

Below them, the forest swallowed all light and sound, an eerie void that stretched to the horizon. He sat down next to her, legs crossed.

“We were escorting a civilian convoy,” Balalaika said softly.

Her voice was nearly inaudible. Rock tried breathing silently, straining to catch her words.

“Translators of the Soviet embassy, moving between the generals every day,” she continued. “We didn’t think much of the job. Just waiting, guarding the cars.

“It wasn’t until a smarter terrorist made a mine that wouldn’t activate under a tank - useless, of course — but could go off under something less armoured.” Balalaika’s voice was faraway, but Rock could hear the rumbling of the Soviet column, rolling through dry sand. “It went off under the car in the centre, after all our tanks had gone past.

“It didn’t blow it up, just set the fuel tanks on fire,” Balalaika said. “We didn’t have anything to fight the blaze.”

Rock had seen a car fire before; an oily, stinking wreck that vomited smoke a mile high.

“Any survivors?” he asked, even though he already knew the answer.

“No,” Balalaika said.

Their fingers brushed, fragments of warmth in the dark.

“Tell me something,” Balalaika said suddenly.

“Um,” Rock said, confused, “tell you what?”

Her fingers dug into the dirt next to his hand. “Anything,” she said.

Rock told her about his family, even the extended ones. He told her about the dog he once befriended riding home, but then he changed the route for high school and never saw it again. He told her about Japan, if she cared to visit. Even his favourite places in Roanapurr, but halfway through describing the six-fan breeze of his local cafeteria Rock realised he wasn’t being entirely honest.

“My favourite place in that city is usually where you are,” he said. Rock saw Balalaika blink. “It’s true,” he added.

“I’ve never regretted spending time with you, ever,” Rock said. He looked out over the forest. “Not even now.”

Balalaika was silent for a long time. “Thank you,” she said distantly.

Rock studied Balalaika closely. Her face was still drawn, but there was something about her eyes. They weren’t looking outwards, only in.

_Oh, hell no,_ Rock thought. _I’m not going to let you torture yourself like that._ He slipped back to their packs, looking for a few familiar items.

Moments later, he came tearing out of the bunker. “Help!” Rock cried as pathetically as he could. “There’s a snake!”

Absolutely dependable, Balalaika leaped to her feet — _holy shit where did she get that bayonet_ — and ran towards him. “Where!?” she demanded, grabbing him roughly. “Were you bitten?”

“Nope, I caught it!” Rock said, revealing his co-star, a hand puppet with lopsided eyes and badly drawn scales. Lacking craft supplies, he’d made do with the most versatile thing they had — a nice, stretchy condom.

Rock had never seen Balalaika boggle at something, but her eyes went so wide he thought they’d fall out of her head. She lowered her weapon and gaped at him soundlessly. Rock felt his dignity shrivel up and die, but he was beyond committed now.

Rock reached out and took her hand in the puppet’s jaws. “Oops, looks like you’ve been bitten,” he said. Kindergarten shows had better acting, honestly. Rock raised her hand to his lips, smiling.

“Think I could get the poison out, or…”

“Don’t be silly,” Balalaika said automatically. “Snake venom doesn’t work that way—” she managed, before bursting into laughter. Rock started giggling a bit himself when she hugged him tightly, still laughing into his hair.

“You… you really are…” she gasped. “You really are _something_.” She smoothed back her hair.

“Oh, fuck it,” Balalaika said.

Rock didn’t have time to react before she kissed him full on the mouth. He had a momentary _Do all Russians do this with their friends_ before the addition of tongue made it _very_ clear what she meant.

Rock felt lightheaded when she finally let him go. The sky was starting to lighten with the pale pinks of dawn, outlining the smug expression of a woman who knew _exactly_ what she wanted.

Balalaika grabbed him by the hand and started back to their tent. He managed to keep up with her though, and when they finally tumbled back inside he was the first to get his hands under her shirt.

She laughed and made him take off _that_ condom first.

*

There was so much Rock forgot he could _feel_. In between death-defying adrenaline and crippling terror, he’d forgotten how nice it was to feel like the world ended at the fingertips of the person next to you.

Balalaika’s hair was even messier now, and Rock dimly remembered it tumbling like a waterfall down her breasts as she rode him against the sunrise. Now, it curled tamely across the floor, where he could reach out and stroke it, like loosely pulled silk.

“You _like_ my hair,” Balalaika murmured, pleased. Her eyes were still closed, blissfully relaxed. “Is it ‘cause it’s blonde?”

“I dunno, feels nice,” Rock said. His thoughts were still a bit jumbled, but seeing Balalaika breathe deeply in front of him grounded the warmth in his chest. “Being with you feels nice,” he sighed.

Balalaika opened her eyes, squinting at him. “That’s all you have to say after everything I’ve done?” she said pointedly.

“I know it took all day, but I got it eventually…”

Her mouth fell open. “‘All day’?” she echoed. “You think it was just _yesterday_?”

Rock groaned. “Yeah, all those condom jokes and not wearing underwear and—”

“ _You think that was it?!”_ Balalaika hissed.

She shot him a look that made Rock’s life flash before his eyes. And as the last few months flew by on fast-forward, he realised why.

“Oh my god,” Rock said, mouth dry. “You asked me out. Lots of times.” Dinners, late night drives and an invitation to _play chess in her hotel room_ —

“Yes, but you’re an idiot,” Balalaika muttered. “It didn’t matter how many candles I lit, you always remarked, ‘Miss Balalaika, aren’t those a fire hazard?’”

Having his exact words thrown at him stung a little. “It was your safety I was worried ab—”

“Oh, shut up,” Balalaika said, kissing him again.

Rock took the hint, stroking her leg as she folded herself over him. Her lips pushed roughly against his, pressing his head firmly into the hard-packed floor. Rock reached up, running his hands over her bare thighs and up between her legs as she straddled him. She moaned into his throat when he slipped his fingers inside her. Balalaika’s breasts were soft and heavy against him, and they jumped nicely every time she jerked herself against his hand.

She was already so sensitive, it didn’t take much to get her off. His fingers glistened underneath her body, disappearing as she ground her hips against them, a short breath escaping from the corner of her mouth as she turned her head for a better angle. Balalaika broke the kiss to swear loudly when he pushed a third finger inside, brushing his thumb over her clit at the same time. She tensed, then let out an explosive breath before tugging his hand away.

“Enough, enough,” Balalaika panted, flushing pink to her clavicle. “Let me…”

Balalaika travelled lower down his body, trailing a fingertip down his stomach as though marking a path to his groin. She nudged Rock’s legs apart a little, making room for herself between his thighs as she took his cock in one hand. Balalaika’s hand gave him a warm massage along the shaft, and Rock nearly fainted with pleasure. Oh god, she knew exactly how to hold it, her thumb under the head and another finger trailing nearly to his—

“Get hard for me, baby,” Balalaika crooned, before taking the head into her mouth.

Rock would have been embarrassed at how well that worked if Balalaika wasn’t thrilled at his immediate erection. She paused to roll another condom on him before getting to work. Rock couldn’t remember the last time a woman’s tongue got him this horny; her mouth was hot and her tongue inquisitive, and she even knew how to run her teeth down his length in a way that got him panting hard.

Rock wanted to buck into her throat but the hands on his hips were clear: _Lie back and enjoy it_.

As Balalaika lapped at the tip of his cock, the latex made the pressure just a bit tighter and warmer, like a corkscrew slowly tightening. Rock moaned, clenching his fists. Between nips and licks, Balalaika knew exactly what to do to bring him skyrocketing to the edge, but pulling back before he came.

She _finally_ started going down the shaft. Just the heat of her mouth and tongue on his cock made his breathing ragged, and Rock couldn’t stand much more of the teasing, straining against her grip to go deeper into her mouth —

Balalaika suddenly pulled away from him, making him jerk in surprise; she’d let go of his cock too, sitting up and wiping her mouth in satisfaction. He stared incredulously at his ramrod-straight dick, then back to her smug expression.

“Are you serious?!” Rock said. “You can’t just _leave_ me—”

“And _you_ can?” Balalaika said. She crooked one hand over her hip, the look in her eyes daring him to argue.

“It’s not the same!”

Balalaika ignored his protest, stretching out dramatically, her hair fanning under her. “Goodness knows you left me alone far too many times,” she said, turning over and settling down for a nap.

The hope of still being able to cum in her mouth made him bold. Rock stroked her shoulder gently, “Hey, I’m sorry—”

“Nope,” she replied, not turning. “You have hands, yes?”

Rock sighed and turned to face the tent wall.

*

“Please tell me we’re going to burn this,” Rock said, sliding the tent poles out.

“Absolutely not, it’s still equipment,” Balalaika said around her cigarette. She’d donned her plain fatigues again, but her overshirt was left open to the waist to stay cool.

Between the sleeping bags, tent and clothes, Rock figured that keeping this secret was only possible if they stayed downwind for the rest of their lives. He doubted he could look anyone from Hotel Moscow in the eye after this. There was a huge difference between _I got laid!_ and _I shagged your beloved captain in the literal bushes._

“Please hurry, pick up is in thirty minutes,” Balalaika said, checking her watch.

“Yes, Miss Balalaika,” he said quickly, pulling the pack shut.

The way out was surprisingly straightforward; Balalaika followed the cliff to a marked tree, showing Rock how to abseil to the highway. From there she herded him up the road a few kilometres, where a nondescript black car was waiting.

Boris got out to greet them. “ _Kapitan, dobry_ —” Boris caught himself, switching as he saw Rock. “Good afternoon, _kapitan_ , Rock. You’re late.”

“My mistake, Sergeant,” Balalaika drawled behind him. “Don’t blame the boy.”

Rock groaned inwardly. With her knotted hair and open shirt, Balalaika practically reeked of a good lay; not a bad look, except that Rock was still within reach of the sergeant.

Boris looked at Balalaika, then Rock. His scarred face was expressionless as he put their bags away and opened the door for them. Rock hurriedly climbed in.

Balalaika got in next to him, right after she high-fived Boris loudly.

“You _told_ him?” Rock said in disbelief as the engine started. He didn’t know who was snickering louder, Balalaika or Boris.

“I keep no secrets from my men,” Balalaika said with an almost-straight face.

Boris snorted. “You can start now,” he told her, angling the rear-view mirror to catch both of them.

Rock saw his own beet-red face and dropped his head with a miserable groan. Balalaika ruffled his hair in his moment of weakness, laughing.

“Oh, Boris,” Balalaika said, after she’d finished comparing Rock’s face to shades of cooked prawn, “call Levatsky and tell him his M76 is in the locker. If he says he can’t find it, tell him to check under the first aid kit then punch himself in the face.”

“Yes, _kapitan_ ,” Boris said, grinning. “Also, while you were gone, a report on the _Ya Hang_ junk came in from the docks…”

As Balalaika and Boris debated strategy for dealing with rogue Asian pirates, Rock leaned back and watched the forest give way to packed plantations. It was just like their trip up the mountain yesterday.

He felt Balalaika’s hand on his leg, her fingers curling over the inside of his thigh.

_Well, today feels infinitely better._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One epilogue to go! It's got Hotel Moscow in it!


	5. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Balalaika, whatever will your comrades say?

EPILOGUE

Cramming nearly fifty men into a single break room was about as orderly as a riot. Somehow, Hotel Moscow could fall into formation at the blink of an eye, but not find a place to plant their arse in the two whole minutes Balalaika counted out.

“All of you, shut up and sit down,” Balalaika snapped, running out of patience.

At least ten different voices complained about the lack of chairs even as they sank to half-squats and seats on the floor. Balalaika steeled herself, keeping her voice as professional as possible.

“Comrades, the weekend mission was a success—”

The resounding cheer nearly knocked her off her feet. Some of her more rambunctious comrades threw out future ‘mission suggestions’, howling with laughter. It didn’t help that several of the men closest to her immediately decided to slap her on the back in congratulations, knocking her words right out her mouth. Balalaika took a second to catch her breath; Azarov still hit like a boxer!

The crowd was displaying a range of emotions, from Petrov’s delighted whooping, to many bemused looks, and Sakharov’s anguished face. Balalaika narrowed her eyes. Now she knew who placed that thousand-dollar bet against her!

“Gentlemen! Please!” she yelled over the uproar.

They eventually settled down, and Balalaika snatched the opportunity to pull out a battered box.

“Yes, it was a success— NO THANKS TO YOU!” Balalaika shouted, brandishing the box of condoms. “Who the _fuck_ thought it was a good idea to put this in my pack?!”

The room was dead silent. Balalaika could have put a _condom_ on the thick pause.

“Nobody?” she asked.

Petrov, bless his honest soul, raised his hand.

“We thought you needed it?” he said in a tiny voice. The soldiers around him nodded, casting placating looks in her direction.

Balalaika rubbed her temples; God, she was going to forgive them at this rate.

“You could have hidden them properly,” she said. “When Rock found this instead of the trail mix, he wouldn’t talk to me for ages.”

“Yeah, but did they come in handy?” Anton called from the back.

“I’m _so_ glad you asked, Tosha!” Balalaika said sweetly. She opened the box and threw its contents into the air.

A confetti cloud of condom wrappers fluttered around her as she looked over each and every face, fixing their expressions of shock, horror and disbelief in her memory. In the absolute silence, she could hear everyone’s gears grind to a halt as the image of someone _using_ _all these condoms_ threw a collective spanner in their mental works.

Balalaika thought of Rock’s lovely dark eyes, and smirked at all her comrades.

“They came in _very useful_. Gentlemen, dismissed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! 
> 
> Please leave a comment! I'm working on another Balalaika/Rock fic, with deception missions, fake-married and Soviet gunslinging, and I literally live off your feedback x'D Thanks again!


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